


Tortured

by AriaRo7



Category: Gallagher Girls Series - Ally Carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriaRo7/pseuds/AriaRo7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torture is watching someone you love suffer. That was the first lesson Joe taught Cammie. Now she must review it as she rescues the man she loves like a father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tortured

“Chameleon,” I heard my Aunt’s voice in my ear, clear and comforting. For a moment I wondered if she could hear my heart as well as I could, before reminding myself that my attention was needed elsewhere.  
“Remember your mission,” she told me as I walked down the empty hallway, “Your mission is to bring him back. When you find him, just remember that. Whatever condition you find him in, just bring him back.” She told me, and I failed to block the mental image that crossed my mind as she spoke. My heart constricted painfully at the thought of finding Joe Solomon’s lifeless body. I nodded but didn’t reply as I retraced the steps I didn’t remember taking.  
Moments later, I found myself at the door. I didn’t know why, but I knew this was it. It led to the ‘interrogation room’. Every seasoned spy knew that was lip service for ‘torture chamber’. I hid inside a maintenance closet and waited. I waited and waited for what seemed hours, though my internal clock marked 20 minutes. Finally a subject clad in black approached the door. He inserted the code. The door opened. I shot him. The napotine dart took effect in milliseconds. He slumped to the ground, creating a convenient door stopper. I stepped over him, not bothering to move him.  
As I stepped into the room, the stench hit me first. It smelled of sweat and urine and burnt flesh, making my eyes water before adjusting to the darkness. That’s when my heart stopped for a moment. Seated in the middle of the room, bound to a chair was Joe Solomon, naked, blindfolded, and gagged. They didn’t want anything from him; they only sought to inflict pain upon him, pain that was meant for me to bear.  
Clearly he had heard me entered the room. His head snapped up as I stepped in, and I could see him struggle not to panic. I stepped closer to him. As I did, I heard his breath become labored. Joe Solomon was hyperventilating. Joe Solomon was scared and evidently, Joe Solomon was in unbearable pain. I carefully examined his state. All over his body his skin was red, purple, and blue- all the colors skin wasn’t supposed to be. Moreover, red angry lines crisscrossed the entirety of his body and a festering wound marred his chest. As I took a step forward I saw him brace himself and realized he was tied to an electric chair just as I heard my heart shatter. For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. I couldn’t tell him he was safe. I couldn’t put him out of his misery. For the longest seconds of my life I watched the man I loved like a father struggle for breath, terrified and in pain and I hated myself for it. Finally I found my voice.  
“Sir,” I called out, the steadiness of it surprising me, but it was what he needed to hear. Immediately, I saw Mr. Solomon attempt to control his breath. My hand reached out to his shackled one, seeking to comfort him. He quickly seized it, desperately grasping it in his, his fingers intertwining with mine.  
“Okay,” I breathed out. “Okay,” I repeated as I felt him calm down. I gently removed my hand from his before setting to work. I walked to stand behind him, reached for my small pocket knife-a gift from him- and deftly cut away the blindfold, then the gag. I walked over again to face him as I removed the blindfold. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but the other one was soon trained on me, following my every move. I carefully removed the gag from his tightened mouth. He flinched and backed away, a yelping sound alerting me to his pain. His jaw was broken. I took a moment to wipe away the saliva, which was all I could do, before moving on to his hands.  
I quickly pulled out a small laser to solder away his metal binding. As I worked in silence I could hear the distressed rumbling of his stomach, could see the way his chest expanded and contracted heavily; struggling for every breath. Every part of his body, every movement he made where a painful reminder of the extent of his suffering.  
At long last one hand was freed, then the other. I paused to slightly massage both of his wrists, coaxing the blood to flow back into them. I softly planted a kiss upon the knuckles of his left hand before kneeling to unbind his feet. Carefully, I grabbed his left foot by the heel, and proceeded to laser off the metal shackle. I caught the shackle and carefully placed it on the ground to avoid making noise. I grabbed his other foot from the underside, and he quickly jerked it away. I turned to look at him.  
“Caned,” he slurred the word weakly. His eyes shut against the pain. I nodded, careful to grab it by the heel, as I unbound him. Once they were freed, I examined his feet, red and swollen, possibly broken. I paused for a moment, pondering our next move. He didn’t seemed to be under the influence of any drug, but I didn’t want to risk him by dosing him with napotine, not to mention that pulling deadweight through the compound would endanger us both. Yet, I couldn’t make him walk out of here, not in his state.  
“I can walk, Chameleon,” he let me know moving to stand. I held out my hand to stop him, knowing that in his condition, every step would be torture relived. As I stood up, he quickly grabbed the gag and placed it on his mouth. He reached out his hand towards me, seeking my help. It was a command. I nodded.  
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I moved to help him stand. Not even the gag could muffle the loud, agonized groan he emitted as his feet hit the ground. He leaned heavily against me, his right hand fisting the fabric around my neck, the other grasping my waist for support, his were eyes shut against the pain that coursed through his body as he tried to get used to it, to make it bearable. I sighed. I couldn’t do this, even if he insisted.  
“Forgive me,” I said, as I slid the syringe from my side pocket and drove it into the vein in his neck.  
He didn’t have time to react. His body slumped against mine. I quickly moved to place his body across my back, shifting his weight around until it became relatively comfortable to move. Immediately I noticed it was lighter than it should be. We’d have to fix that, but for now we had to get out of there. I quickly stepped over my Door Stopper friend and made my way back, slower than intended.  
“Good job, Chameleon,” my Aunt praised as I presume she saw the dot representing me go back the way I came in.  
“The Alien should me you at the crossroads,” She informed me, as Edward Townsend cursed into his comms unit. E.T. had been Aunt Abby’s first choice for a code name, but being too obvious she changed it to The Alien- and much to his dismay, it had stuck.  
The cross roads was a part of the compound which branched into 6 halls, only one leading out. By the time I reached it, my shoulders ached and my breathing was becomingly increasingly labored. I was met by Townsend, his face expressionless as he approached me. We wordlessly exchanged cargo. I shifted Mr. Solomon’s body over unto his back and took up the grenade launcher. We proceeded in silence. He went ahead, I covered his back, gun ablaze, the launcher intended for another purpose. It seemed like an eternity as we made our way back. Along the path, I could see several bodies strewn about, Townsend’s handiwork.  
After a while we made it back to the passage that had led us in. As we stepped out, I took a deep breath savoring the cool night air, the words ‘mission accomplished’ dancing at the tip of my tongue, but before I could mutter them I had to get Joe to safety. I stayed back and watched as Townsend jogged towards the helicopter hidden behind the dense forest. As I saw him enter the forest I turned around and aimed the grenade launcher at the entrance of the passage.  
I started running, felt and heard the explosion behind me as I caught up with Townsend, who was already boarding the chopper with the help of Aunt Abigail. He quickly deposited him unto the makeshift bed they had procured and wordlessly stepped into the pilot’s compartment, starting up the helicopter.  
I took a seat and watched as Aunt Abby accommodated Joe’s tortured body. She draped a towel over his mid-section for courtesy’s sake before kneeling by him to examine his condition.  
“Oh, Joe,” I head her mutter under her breath, her hand caressing his face as she inspected the wound on his chest. It was hard to discern what had caused it, given that it was covered in pus and blood. I quickly scrambled to set up the oxygen tank, handing her the cannula. She carefully placed it over his nostrils, around his head as I turned it on. She sighed, standing up. She turned to me, shook her head softly.  
“There’s not much we can do until we assess his internal injuries at Gallagher, Cammie,” she told me.  
“May we clean him up?” I asked softly, looking over at his bloody and battered body, and the water basin beside his bed.  
Aunt Abby paused for a moment, her eyes scanning Joe’s body. She shook her head.  
“I can’t,” she muttered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and I understood. To her Joe was a big brother and big brothers were supposed to be indestructible.  
“Townsend needs his copilot,” I said, my voice emotionless as I handed her a get-out-of-jail card. She nodded in gratitude and apology as she disappeared into the next compartment. I sighed as I stood to kneel by his bedside. I quickly emptied a water bottle into the washbowl and grabbed the large sponge beside it.  
I started with his hand, gently draping the sponge over each of his fingers. I noticed two of them where broken. I passed the sponge over his wrist and down his arm, which were covered in lacerating wounds that had started healing. At his shoulder I could see the deeper welts caused by a thick whip. I ebbed at the side of the open welts, cleaning away the old blood, and the grime.  
When I got to the wound in his chest I continued to gently dab away at the grime, the pus and blood. A sob escaped my lips as I uncovered the mark of the Circle crudely branded unto his flesh. No. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve the pain, He didn’t deserve the humiliation. He didn’t deserve the torture they had put him through. And knowing that he thought otherwise made it unbearable.  
I kept going, but the sobs wouldn’t subside, neither would the tears which seemed to increase every time I squeezed the bloody water into the basin. It was a sort of torture in itself, washing away the blood off his body, tracing and retracing every wound, every mark, every welt and every bruise. I comforted myself knowing he was safe now. He would be okay. We would make it okay.  
“It’ll be okay,” I whispered over and over again as I run my fingers through his hair. When I finished cleaning his front side I paused only to insert and IV line into his marked wrist before moving to turn him unto his stomach. I covered my mouth as I gasp in surprise. I hadn’t had the opportunity to appreciate the torture inflicted upon his backside, but now I did, although I wished I didn’t. There wasn’t an inch of his back not covered by a swollen or burst welt.  
I softly washed his back side, careful not to use too much water. I descended down his spine, and noticed blood pooled under his thighs. The implications of it racked my body with renewed sobbing. I move unto his thighs and gently cleaned the deep caning marks before padding him dry. I then dug out the soothing ointment from the first aid kid, and warmed it in my hands before gently dabbing it until his abused back side, down each leg.  
We still had hours to go after I had accommodated him into a comfortable position and dosed him with more Napotine. By this time I no longer had tears in me, although erratic sobs still wracked my body. I kissed Joe Solomon’s forehead before laying my head beside him, one of my arms serving as a pillow, the other extending to intertwine my hand with his.  
Exhausted, I let the darkness overtake me. Tomorrow would be another day. Tomorrow we could deal with the worst of his injuries. Tomorrow we could start healing.


End file.
